Complication
by Dreamincolor
Summary: Set midS4, focus on Wesley/Lilah. Angelus is on the loose and it's up to Wesley and the gang to stop him, with a little help from an unusual package sent by the Powers.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Complication  
**Authors**: walkwithheros and Iris  
**Spoilers:** Up to Season 4, Episode 12 Calvary.  
**Rated:** PG13  
**Main Pairing**: Wes/Lilah

**Setting:** This fic opens approximately two weeks after Angelus's escape and Lilah's death. Angelus and the Beast are both still at large, the sun is still out, and general chaos still reigns in LA. Angelus and the Beast are still the main Bads, but we're rewriting the plot from there.

**Disclaimer:** Not ours, wish they were, ect.

**Chapter 1  
**by walkwithheros

* * *

It was complicated, intricate.

Over four dozen tea lights were arranged in a symmetric pattern on the tile, and moonlight leaked in casually through the windows as it had without reprieve since the Beast snuffed out the sun. Fred and Lorne stood on the balcony of the second floor, comparing the sketch in their hands to the candles below. Connor hovered behind Cordelia as she sat staring into the depths of a marked up notebook page. Gunn moved silently by, pacing along the hotel's main entryway, axe in hand as he kept watch.

They had performed enough spells on the hotel to keep ten Angelus's out, but rightfully, they were still on edge. Connor trailed protectively after Cordelia, shooting glares at anyone who so much as looked at her wrong, Lorne and Fred had spent a good portion of the evening huddled shoulder to shoulder, muttering comforting words of friendship to one another, and Gunn had his axe, his axe and the idle threats he uttered under his breath.

Then Wesley had his thoughts. He had his loss. He had the space where she used to be, the part of him that she occupied before Angelus killed her.

If the now empty space were symbolically located inside him, he doubted the gap would be in his heart. Maybe it was from his side that she had been taken, like Eve was from Adam. She was not unlike Eve when he thought about it, Eve and the apple. Eve and temptation.

Lilah had been a temptation. She had helped lead him astray, led him away from goodness. Being with her, it had been wrong.

Yet as her presence so often had, her memory blurred his perception of right and wrong. By past acts and by occupation, she had undeniable been on the side of evil. The face she showed the world was cold, cruel and merciless.

But even so, it was the few unshakable moments that he remembered vividly; the rare moments when the secretive hush of night fell over them and fatigue and familiarity temporarily thinned their walls. It was in these moments that she was gentle and he was warm, and they held each other wordlessly. It was in these moments that if he hadn't known better, if he had been an observer or a child, he might have called it love.

"A little to the left, Hunnybun." A green hand pointed over the balcony above him and a hint of wax dribbled onto the floor as Wesley moved a lit candle as directed. Lorne's pet names always tempted a smile on his face, but today it was only a temptation.

"I think I've got it, Wes." Cordelia's voice drew him to her side, lifting his glasses from his pocket. His eyes strained to see her handy-work by candlelight, doing his best to ignore Connor's breath on the back of his neck. She'd been making last-minute corrections to the symbols she'd drawn out, comparing the still vivid image from her vision to what she'd etched on the page.

It was three, no, four times that she had gotten the same vision in the past week. An arrangement of candles, all lit and organized into a symmetric, eight-pointed star; a shape most of Wesley's reference books recognized as the Chaos symbol. Then in a second flash Cordelia would see rows of symbols that to her were only gibberish, but to Wesley, when she drew them out, were sentences of a dead, archaic language, a language they could only assume he was to read out loud.

"Circle, or octagon?" He gestured to one of her sloppier symbols.

"Circle." Big, brown eyes lifted to him, and her features flickered with the dim light. As he lifted the page from her hands to make a few last specifications he was keenly aware of Connor, who now took form in his mind's eye as a frightfully protective guard dog, fuming behind him over what he could only assume to be his close proximity to Cordelia.

"I think we're ready, Fred, Lorne," Without looking up from the page, he called up to them, and then added as an afterthought, "..Gunn."

The group closed in around the ensemble, and at the edge of his vision he glimpsed Fred, small hands tense and lips thinning anxiously, and without speaking she had told him that what was on his mind was on theirs too.

The last vision Cordelia had received had given them the spell they presumed would return Angel's soul, an assumption Angelus took advantage of to escape. That was why he was loose, that was why he was free. What were the Powers playing at, sending them spells that didn't work? They had no reason to believe that this spell would end any better.

This was one of the many disadvantages to the Powers-That-Screw-You. It was hardly a two-way phone line, and filing an employee complaint-form was rather out of the question.

Still they had discussed it-the ups and downs of performing a spell that could to anything. It could save the day or it could blow their little heads off, whichever suited the powers today, and in the end they had reached a shaky consensus. What did they have to lose?

Besides their lives and each other.

"Right." Wesley let one last, sweeping look move over the other's dimly lit faces, before lowering his eyes to the writing in front of him. Capturing a breath, he read. "Detant lemay tecnalante, relagmay petantey secto." Wesley's pronunciation was flawed at best, but for a thousand year old language it wasn't entirely unimpressive. Still it was more than a little infuriating that pronouncing it was all he could do, the original meaning of the symbols lost in centuries past. "Relie chantanteles ricto shulay, ubtecnay dita." The candles in the center of the room brightened with a steadily increasing glow, illuminating the faces around him and as a fortunate side effect, the page he was reading from. "Ridante sectrat secto, shulay. Shulay. Shulay."

The tiny flames grew until they felt the heat on their faces and the whole room was illuminated, the little tongues of fire unifying into a great, flashing blaze. "Hectante rida shutka. Shulay. Shulay. Shulay." His voice strained as the heat rose, and his fellows took several cautious steps back. The fire cracked and hissed, one large, swaying flame engulfing all fifty candles and the floor between them.

"Teclante caldra destrito. Helita shutka shulay. Shulay..SHULAY!" As he read from the last line the blaze became unbearably bright and hot, and pressing his eyes closed he stumbled back against the wall with a heavy thud, glasses toppling from his face as he buried it in his arms. The heat felt unbearable, and even through his eyelids the brightness seemed to burn.

Then slowly the air cooled and the light dimmed, and choking in a chest-full of air he strained to see.

The floor was singed black, puddles of melted wax littering the uniform scorch-marks, and in the center of the scarred floor a light patch stood out.

Pale and unblemished, an uncannily familiar form lay sprawled face down against the tile, the woman's motionless figure naked for all to see.

And before anyone else had the slightest inkling of who she was, he knew.

He knew those legs, slender and soft; flawless but for the freckles that spread like a constellation up her left thigh. He knew those hands almost as well as they knew him, all smooth fingertips and nails that he remembered days later by the moon-shaped nicks on his shoulders. He knew that body from head to foot, a body that had on so many occasions pressed her name from him like music.

Lilah.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2  
**By Iris

* * *

This woman, lying on the floor of the hotel with eyes shut tight, curled into herself. Her arms were wrapped tightly around her body as if, even in sleep, she had to fend off the cruelties of the outside world. For all her familiar features, his woman was a mystery to him.

Weak, vulnerable--these were not words to describe Lilah. Wesley's attempt to catch his bearings was weak at best. He looked around at the others with frantic, searching eyes--seeing the same shocked look on each one of their faces that told him this wasn't a dream. Lilah was here.

Gunn shook his head, as if trying to clear away the mental cobwebs that had settled over them with the spell. He took one look at the frail, unconscious woman before adverting his eyes to the ground, his voice a wary hush, "Man…if this is some sort of joke, well, the powers sure do have a sick sense of humor."

He caught a look from Fred that said, "Now isn't the time." Behind Wesley she moved as if to touch him, but thinking better of it ran a hand through her hair in a feeble attempt to tame her disheveled tresses. On the edge of Wesley's vision he could see her glance at the unmoving body awkwardly, before trying to catch Wesley's evasive gaze, but to no avail. He only had eyes for the figure on the floor.

His face no longer held the frantic look of before, but in its place embraced a poignant sense of absence. He just kept staring, staring at Lilah's motionless form as though for all the world he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

She had died. He had held her limp body in his arms and pressed his hand to her cold cheek. He had sat staring at her still form for what felt like eternity, waiting for it to sink in. He had done the most horrible thing of his life, decapitating a loved one out of pure…love, as odd as that sounded. Or at least something close to it. She was dead; dead, and gone.

And yet, there she was.

Tension hung in the air like an almost tangible thing, so thick and oppressive that Wesley felt for a moment that he could reach out and touch it. "Is she…" Fred made an awkward motion as if considered checking her for a pulse, but like the rest of them she was too wrapped in shock to do any such thing. "Alive?"

Lorne's eyes darkened, "It looks like it, sweet pea. She's breathing, but I'd be careful about getting too close. There's no telling where she's been or--" he glanced at the vacant Wesley warily, before cautiously lowering his voice, "if that's even Lilah."

"But, why would the Powers send us Lilah if she's not the real thing? Can't..can't we at least cover her?" Fred wrapped her arms around herself as if feeling reflected vulnerability in her own tiny frame, "We can't just leave her, lying there-"

In a low voice, Cordelia interjected, "But why would the powers send us Lilah in the first place? She might look vulnerable, Fred, but we can't let our guard down. We've no idea if-"

"I'll take her upstairs." Without so much as a backwards glance, Wesley moved to the body on the ground. Shedding his jacket, he gently lifted Lilah's torso enough to wrap it around her. Breathing in relief, he found that she was warm.

Warm, and breathing.

With a hushed, but unflinching voice, he cut off Cordelia's protests off before they'd even began, "We'll question her, but not until she's had the opportunity to settle in."

His back blocked their view of the suddenly calmer, softer look that had settled in his eyes. Gathering Lilah's limp figure into his arms, he added in a murmur, "Like Lorne said, there's no telling where she's spent the past two weeks."

With that he was gone, vanishing up the staircase with Lilah in his arms.

She opened her eyes, slightly amazed on how such a slight action could require so much effort. Her body ached, her limbs felt like lead. A simple task such as lifting her head felt like it would take a year to complete. A room. Warm colours. A chair. A man.

"Hello, Lilah."

She blinked. Once, then again. As everything came to focus she recognized that in fact, she didn't recognize this man at all. She felt the grip of panic: where-am-I-what-am-I-doing-here-I- don't-know-where-I-am-can't-somebody-ple ase--

Abruptly this panic faded into nothingness. Realization hit her like a blunt instrument over the head: This was Wesley. This knowledge strangely didn't comfort her.

She went to sit up and abruptly realized she was wearing nothing but the blanket that covered her. She was in a bed. She was warm--even comfortable, she observed. Her eyes frantically searched the room for something that could comfort her more than the warm sheets, taking in the sound of her own breathing, the faint smell of a musty room. Nothing seemed right. These things felt familiar, and yet not. "Something isn't right." She opened her mouth to let these words flow without thought. She startled herself with the words. Her throat felt raw, her voice grave. Screaming. She had been screaming forever. Hours, days, fucking weeks. Screaming had ripped her throat and turned it bloody at points.

He frowned. There was worry in his eyes, and yet something more troubling to her--she saw the fear. He feared for her sanity. But, as if he couldn't contain his curiosity, "What isn't right?" That searching look. Maybe he had been searching for her after all this time?

"I--" She wanted to say, I'm not there anymore. Not in that hideous murderous place with the blood and horror and indescribable--Calm down, breathe, everything will be all right. She brought herself back, brought herself back to the warmth and the light, and to him. She didn't answer the question. "I don't--" She looked away from his eyes. Those probing eyes. They were searching, looking for answer she didn't have. Asking what she couldn't answer. I don't know. Don't ask me to tell you. I can't. I can't. I can't. I don't want you to see me like this.

An escape is what she needed. Just a few brief moments of peace where she could attempt to compose herself and to avoid those desperately searching eyes. Is she okay? He was asking himself. Is she sane? Does she know who she is? Who I am? "I need a shower." In what she would recognize later as one of her rare attempts at modesty, she fumbled wildly with the blanket wrapped tightly around her frame. Less than gracefully she headed for the open door that appeared to lead to a bathroom.

Inside, the click of the door behind her. Alone. Free. Shocked. Why am I back? Her entire body felt stiff as if she'd been sleeping on the floor, rather than a comfortable mattress. She rolled her head to one side, then the other, allowing the muscles to stretch painfully, but enjoying the sensation none the less. Why am I back? The blanket fell to the floor and she turned the shower on, adjusting the heat until it was just hot enough. Stepping in, she took comfort in the steady hot flow that immediately made her feel like she was at home again.

She washed her hair, her face, her hands, in between her toes. She took a long time doing all of this. Drawing out the inevitable. He had questions, and so would the rest of them. She had questions too, and that's why she knew she would compose herself before finishing he shower. She didn't feel half bad actually, removing the pounding headache and the fact that she had just spent two weeks in hell. The embrace of the shower was comforting and when she finished washing, she doddled only a moment or two longer before turning off the water and stepping out into the world.

Someone, Wesley, she would assume, had left a pair of clothing lying in a neat pile in the corner. He must have come in during her shower without her noticing. A plain black t-shirt, with a bit of a v-shape to emphasis the chest, and a pair of blue jeans. Far from her normal attire of office wear, she put them on anyway. Beggars can't be choosers. She had a strong feeling that these were Cordelia's clothing, and felt amused by the realization. After putting on the borrowed clothing, she glanced into the mirror. Where's under-eye concealer when you need it? She looked not far from exhausted, and when she looked directly into her eyes she lingered. It was almost as if she could see through them, right into her core. Something was obviously missing, but without further analysis she couldn't detect what. Brushing out her hair with only her fingers, she pulled her hair back into a ponytail and decided to leave it at that.

He sat in the same chair as before, though he'd changed positions slightly. He seemed to fail to notice her entrance, and he leaned into the chair. One elbow on the arm rest, he held his head up with one hand as he stared into space. He looked blank, devoid of emotion. Lost in whatever thoughts had ensnared him during her time spent in the shower. She sat down softly on the bed, and when he still failed to respond she took a moment to admire the man before her. Same old, ruggedly handsome Wesley, she allowed herself to admit. Never would this thought be said out loud, and she felt content with that knowledge. Taking in his essence without him being able to acknowledge it was a rare treat indeed, and not something to be taken lightly.

"So," She asked, her head tilted slightly to one side, "did you miss me?"

He gave a start and she marveled at her luck of having the upper hand for once. "Lilah," He brought one hand to rub at his eyes, as if trying to rub away the imprints of a bad dream.

"How are you feeling?"

A wary glance that told her he wasn't buying her act, "I should be asking you the same thing."

A mental sigh. She knew it was too good to be true. He would push and prod. He would fight his way into the truth. Tear her apart to figure out what was ticking on the inside. No fucking way. Her mind protested. I won't go down without a fight. With Lilah Morgan there would always be a fight. Maybe she wouldn't always be on the right side. Perhaps, the only side she'd be on would her own side, or the side that was opposing yours, but she'd be there, fighting back. To the end.

The defensive wall. The sarcasm. It all played a role in keeping him out. "Peachy. How are you? How's the gang?" That sickly sweet smile that was so obviously fake. "Still out fighting the forces of evil?"

He gave a sigh, both of them recognized the challenges that faced the in trying to bring the issue to a head. One person didn't want to acknowledge it, while the other was determined to break the silence that lingered over the issue. "It's been two weeks since you…left us. The Beast is still at large. We've been unable to capture Angelus and re-insoul him. Our resources are becoming less than we can work with. Needless to say, we're at a dead end with both of our serious cases."

She paused after his words sunk in. The Beast. Angelus. One had impaled her, a wound that could have proven fatal if not treated with proper care. The other one had killed her, not quickly either, with the snapping of neck--the best she could have hoped for, considering. No. Angelus had come from behind her. She had opened her mouth to utter a scream and he grabbed her roughly, pulling her into his tight embrace. He had traced her neck with the fingers of his right hand in a delicate manner that would have been considered almost erotic if it hadn't come from a born-killer. Tracing up from her collar bone to behind her ear he whispered, "You know…I always wondered what a lawyer would taste like."

Snap out of it, Lilah. An almost sing-song version of herself in the back of her mind startled her back into the conversation. However, if she had been looking into a mirror, she would have been proud to see that her expression only wavered slightly during the eerie recollection of her death. She was a brick wall. The only thing to betray her was the hollowness in her eyes. She felt that hollowness inside.

"Sounds like a party." She made the flippant remark without knowledge of what kind of response it would received.

"You're lying to yourself if you think you can just shrug this off."

She sighed. "You're really not making it any easier."

"Lilah, I'm sure that what you went through must have been unbearable. But, consisting all that's happened, I don't agree with keeping this bottled inside. Leaving your emotional trauma to fester over time will only lead to more problems in the future."

"It's fine, lover. I have a bit of a hangover from travelling dimensions, but nothing a few Advil can't cure." She stretched. "I'm stronger than I look."

"Right now even that notion isn't very encouraging."

She ignored his words on the outside, but mentally filled them away for later. Under eye concealer. First thing on her list of 'things to do': Steal some from one of the female occupants of the hotel or die trying. "Why am I back?"

"The Powers sent Cordy a vision. It was us performing a spell that was expected…well, honestly," he looked at her point-blank, "we weren't sure what to expect. We hoped it might have something to do with re-ensouling Angel, but we had no real way of knowing. The words in the spell…well, I'd never seen anything like them. We had nothing else to go on."

She quirked an eyebrow, "Well, that's disappointing. I was hoping you actually wanted me back. Now what? I'm not exactly the savior of the world, am I? What are you expecting from the girl who just returned from hell?"

"As of yet? Nothing. In the future, we'll see. The 'gang' as you call them is eagerly awaiting my trip downstairs to hear how you're doing. Everyone was a little shocked to see you back. I'm a tad surprised their not all hovering outside the door as we speak. We need to decide how we're going to deal with this. We need answers."

"We? What are we going to deal with, Wes?"

"We still don't know why you're here to begin with."

Raised eyes with conviction, "Then I guess you better get started."

* * *


End file.
